


Breaking Points

by rebooting



Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV)
Genre: Bad Guys Made Them Do It, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode: s02e16 Doomworld, Handcuffs, M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-22
Updated: 2018-11-22
Packaged: 2019-08-27 16:51:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16706269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rebooting/pseuds/rebooting
Summary: Doomworld. Snart has noticed that Mick is getting bored, and Thawne has decided that Ray needs to be taken down a peg. Why not solve two problems with one solution?





	Breaking Points

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cherryontop](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cherryontop/gifts).



> I hope I've done the request justice! I've taken some liberties with how the main timeline team were affected by the dissolution of the Doomworld timeline, but nothing that really breaks canon, just bends it a tiny bit.

To say that Mick wasn't a fan of this situation would be putting it mildly. But Len had made it pretty clear that these were orders coming from on high - annoying, speedy high - and that Mick's options were a) bad, or b) worse.

Not that Len had worded it that way.

"You're bored." Len's drawl hadn't sounded any more menacing than it usually did, and Mick was _used_ to it sounding menacing, even if the menace was only aimed at him when he was doing something on a job that put the payload at risk. He'd accepted that as a necessary part of their partnership a long time ago. But there was something _off_ in how Len had sounded, had _looked_ , as he'd leaned against Mick's doorway. "Thawne's noticed."

Mick had dignified that with a grunt in response. Len was right; he _was_ bored with their own personal paradise. What was the fun of breaking the rules if they were _allowed_ to?

"Come on." Len had clapped him on the shoulder, a bright grin on his face. "Thawne's set up something for you. Says the genius needs taking down a peg, and you're just the guy to help."

 _That_ rankled, now that Mick was thinking back on it. He might be muscle and he might be more inclined to violence than Thawne, Merlyn, and Darkh liked to think they were, but he didn't like the notion that he was just some attack dog for them. He hadn't pegged which one was meant to be _the genius_ right away - Haircut, Pretty, and the Professor all qualified, and all had a tendency to get uppity - but that had got cleared up pretty quickly.

Thawne had a fucking _sex dungeon_ in the bowels of the building, behind several layers of security. Mick didn't want to know who else had been brought down here. He'd felt weird enough getting led down by Len, and he'd been walking under his own steam, with a weapon in his belt and, ostensibly, the freedom to leave if he wanted to.

Len had clapped him on the shoulder again and said, "Take your time, buddy. Thawne wants him good and broken, and you don't want to disappoint the boss."

There had been a hint of malice in that, Mick knew. He'd known Len long enough to pick up on the little vocal cues that told him how Len was feeling, and there was _something_ off in his voice, something that said this was as much Len's idea as it was Thawne's. It gave Mick the uncomfortable feel of being placated and tested at the same time, and he didn't like complicated feelings like that.

He'd been left alone for about five minutes, to look around the fucking _sex dungeon_ and take in exactly how fucked-up Thawne really was. He'd bet his heat gun that none of this stuff got used on people who were into it. Thawne didn't seem like that type, as far as Mick's admittedly limited experience went. He didn't have the thing that would make people trust him with that sort of vulnerability.

It pissed Mick off, thinking that Thawne and Len thought he'd be _into_ what was obviously being set up. Sure, he wasn't a good person. He knew that and he didn't have a problem with it, most of the time. The times he did, he could shove the problem away into the little black space in his mind that the Time Masters had made, during that time Mick didn't like to think about when they'd turned him into Chronos. But there was being a not-good person and there was _this_. Mick had never had the patience for torture, and he'd never seen the point in rape. Even someone who looked like him could get sex if he tried hard enough - some people were into scars or scary guys, and most hookers didn't mind how you looked as long as you weren't an asshole to them - and he'd always been big enough, scary enough, that he'd never felt the need to assert his power over anyone else. He _knew_ he was strong and scary; he didn't need to prove it.

Chronos had tortured people, in that long span of time that he'd been the Time Masters' dog before they'd fucked up and set him on the Legends. But Chronos hadn't seen the value in rape either. It took too long and it broke people too unpredictably. When he'd needed information, he'd needed it quickly, and there were faster ways of causing pain.

But apparently, Len and Thawne thought this was right up Mick's alley, and that bugged him.

He was dragged back to the present, out of that irritated musing, by the sound of a scuffle on the other side of the door, and then two of Thawne's goons had the door open and were dragging in a handcuffed Ray, who looked more dishevelled and out of it than Mick had expected. They tossed him onto the floor like a ragdoll and left, the door giving a tell-tale click that meant Mick was locked in here.

Locked in Thawne's freaky sex dungeon with a Ray who didn't remember him and probably wouldn't be that happy to be locked in here with Mick even if he _did_ remember him. What with the whole giving the Spear to Len and his buddies thing. Mick figured that would put a downer on the whole mood.

Mick sighed, reaching down to grab Ray's upper arm and haul him to his feet. Ray swayed, and Mick swore. He'd seen that sort of loose-limbed unsteadiness before, and it never meant good things. Without asking for permission, he grabbed Ray's chin and inspected his eyes, turning the other man's head to see how his pupils reacted to light hitting them.

So. Drugs of some sort, for whatever game Thawne was playing and Len was facilitating. Mick doubted they were meant to ensure Ray wouldn't fight him; in a knock-down brawl, he had too much weight and experience on Ray to be seriously threatened. No, there was something else going on here, and Mick didn't like it one bit.

He was aware, though, that there was a little lens up in one corner of the room that meant _someone_ was watching. Mick wasn't eager to star in Thawne's private porno, but the other option - letting Len and Thawne know that he wasn't okay with how everything was going here, and letting Thawne take on the task of taking Ray down a peg, as Len had put it - wasn't going to fly. If someone had to do it, better that it be someone who wasn't going to go out of their way to be a _complete_ asshole about it, right?

He towed Ray over to the bed and tossed him down, gentler than the goons had been, already going over possibilities in his mind. He wasn't the smartest guy on the team by any stretch, but that didn't mean he was going to just run headlong with no _plans_. Not with something like this.

This reality's Ray didn't have the experience that Mick was used to working with when it came to shit going down with the Legends. He was used to a Ray who'd been the Atom for a while before Rip had brought them all together, who'd dealt with trauma and loss and danger and violence almost as a matter of course since moving to Star City and losing his fiancée. That Ray was still annoyingly chipper and way too optimistic than anyone had any right to be, but he was tempered by those experiences, and Mick knew how far he could take things before they started treading new traumas into his psyche.

This Ray didn't have any of that. As far as Mick had been able to tell, Thawne and Darkh had decided that being a lowly janitor was punishment enough, without adding a crapsack backstory into the mix. And while, sure, it was _in theory_ nice that this Ray hadn't had to deal with any of the bullshit that came with being a superhero - even one that Rip said wasn't that important - it still meant that any of the resilience he'd built up from those experiences was gone.

And if Mick wanted to fix the clusterfuck he'd got himself into by listening to Len instead of remembering that Len was dead and it wouldn't hurt _Mick_ any more to put him in the ground again, he had a feeling he was going to need Ray's brain reasonably unbroken.

Huffing out another exasperated sigh, he left Ray on the bed and went over to the counter that had the tamer stuff on it. Oils and lotions and that sort of shit. He grabbed the first one that looked familiar and headed back to the bed, sitting down beside Ray.

It wasn't just a sedative or a muscle relaxant that Ray had been dosed with; Mick could tell that, this close. His skin was warm and flushed in a way that couldn't be explained by anything but arousal, and even though confusion and fear were clear in his eyes, so was animal desire. Mick didn't fool himself into thinking it was _attraction_.

Delaying the inevitable would only put them both at risk. Mick pushed Ray onto his back, saying roughly, "Don't fight, Haircut, and I won't hurt you."

Not that he'd never thought about fucking Ray. He'd have to have been blind not to notice how good-looking Ray was. (And Nate. And Amaya. And Sara. And Jax. The whole damn ship was attractive, all right?) But Ray had always struck him as the sort of guy to have a type that was, well, _not Mick_. Not rough-and-ready and scarred to hell and only on the side of good by virtue of having nothing better to do.

That was what they all thought about Mick, wasn't it?

But even if he'd fantasised, it wouldn't have been like this. Mick preferred enthusiastic partners; it was more fun that way.

Reality never did live up to fantasy. He'd known that for a long time.

Thawne had, considerately, provided a small knife, and Mick used it to get rid of Ray's clothes. He couldn't get Ray's shirt off any other way, with his hands cuffed, and he doubted Ray would want the clothes after this. He swallowed as he looked down at Ray, who was shaking under his hands, his breath coming in harsh, short little gasps, still caught between fear and arousal from whatever the hell it was he'd been dosed with. Mick could see the effects of the aphrodisiac so much more clearly now; despite the fear on his face, Ray's cock lay hard against his pelvis, as though they'd already been fooling around for a good half hour or so.

There was no point in delaying. Len might be watching, Thawne might be watching, and Mick knew the value of a good threat like the one that had been underlying Len's words. If Thawne decided he had to come take over Ray's _breaking_ , things would go so much worse for Ray, and Mick wouldn’t be in any position to help at _all_.

Better that it was this way. Mick was pretty sure they'd all hate him anyway; what was another bit of guilt on his conscience?

He gave Ray's eyes one last check, searching for a spark of lucidity, not sure whether he was hoping to see it or hoping _not_ to see it. Regardless of what he hoped, there was nothing. At least, nothing _helpful_. Just that same mix of fear, confusion, and arousal that made Mick feel uncomfortably like he was in the same room as somebody not all there. Compared to Ray's usual mental acuity, it was more than a little disturbing.

Maybe it was for the best, though. Maybe it meant Ray wouldn't remember as much. Holding onto that thought, Mick uncapped the tube of lube he'd grabbed from the counter and grabbed one of Ray's legs, lifting it to his shoulder to give himself more room to work.

Ray gasped as Mick's fingers brushed over his hole, and his cock twitched against his stomach. That was the point of the drugs, Mick figured. Being raped was bad enough, but Mick knew how Ray's mind worked well enough to know that he was the sort of person who'd go around in circles about the fact that he'd physically enjoyed it. A part of him wanted to be insulted that Len and Thawne hadn't thought he'd be able to do that _without_ the help of drugs, but he had to privately admit that left to his own devices, he probably would have tried to _not_ arouse Ray, for just that reason.

He worked two fingers in slowly, trying to ignore the little sounds Ray kept letting out, little whimpers and half-protests that seemed to be wired directly to Mick's cock. Bad enough that Mick couldn't help thinking about how Ray might sound if he'd taken something to get him this loose and relaxed _voluntarily_ ; Mick didn't need to go and get hard because Ray was moaning and switching between trying to press back against Mick's fingers and trying to pull away from them.

The fight made an unsettling sick feeling settle in Mick's stomach. Forcing that feeling back, he wrapped his free hand around Ray's cock and started to stroke roughly, hoping that if he just overwhelmed Ray with sensation, it'd go easier for them both.

No such luck. Ray let out a choked sound, gasping, "No. _No_ -"

Just Mick's luck, that enough lucidity came through to let Ray be _afraid_. He kept stroking roughly as he worked his fingers inside Ray, trying to loosen him enough that the sex shouldn't _damage_ him. It wasn't going to be fun whatever Mick did, but Mick didn't want to end up with blood being involved.

"C'mon, Haircut," he murmured, hoping that however the room was wired, it didn't include sound. "Relax for me, okay? I don't want to hurt you."

Something in his tone must have got through, because Ray stopped thrashing around as much. Mick kept his free hand on Ray's cock, figuring he could at least make him feel good in the moment, and finished up the prep work he figured he could get away with just as Ray let out a low moan and came, stimulation and drugs beating out fear and confusion.

That worked. Mick took advantage of the few moments' grace that the orgasm gave him to strip off his jeans and get more of the lube onto his own dick, pressing in quickly enough that it should look good for whoever was watching, toeing a careful line between too rough and too gentle.

Ray hadn't come down yet, probably thanks to those _fucking drugs_ , and Mick realised right away that fucking him on his back had been a _stupid_ idea, because he could see Ray's face like this, and he could see the tears in Ray's eyes. Cursing softly, he bent and whispered, "Just get through it. Better me than Thawne."

Ray _flinched_ , and the tears spilled over. Mick swore again and gave up on trying to make it anything but _over_ , setting a punishing pace that must have made Ray's shoulders ache, with his arms cuffed behind him the way they were. But the sooner it was over with, the sooner he could stop looking at those tears.

The aphrodisiac made Ray come twice more before Mick got close, and he spared a moment to wish he'd been able to have some chemical assistance, because as much as the sounds Ray made were weirdly arousing, he was having a hard time _performing_. In the end, though, stimulation won out, and Mick could swear he heard a tiny whirring coming from where the camera was in the corner of wall and ceiling, like whoever was watching was _zooming in_.

Fuckers. Mick was going to leave them piles of ash by the time he was done.

By the time he was done _here_ , Ray was a mess, bruises starting to form on his hips, his face messy from tears and sweat. Mick couldn't bring himself to finish inside him; he pulled out, absurdly relieved to note the distinct lack of blood on his dick, and came on Ray's stomach, his semen joining Ray's.

The sex dungeon had a bathroom, and Mick made a beeline for it, leaving Ray in a heap on the bed. It wasn't like he was going to be able to clean him up or anything, not with Len or Thawne watching. A quick examination of the tiny tiled room revealed no hidden cameras, and Mick took his time washing up, turning over his options in his mind.

The one that seemed the most promising also seemed like it'd get him stabbed or shot or something once it played out the way he hoped it would, but he could live with that.

He came out of the bathroom and went over to the sex dungeon's door, sparing a brief glance for Ray, who had curled onto his side on the bed and was breathing in short, shaky breaths but not actually _crying_ anymore, at least. Mick pounded on the door long enough to get _someone's_ attention, hoping for Len or Thawne. Preferably Len. He was pretty sure he could fool either of them, with the way they'd been talking to him lately, but he'd have an edge with Len.

His luck, for once, was in; when the door opened, it was Len on the other side, giving him a broad grin. Mick answered with the slightly feral smile that usually cropped up when he was burning someone and said, "You were right. I feel _much_ better."

Len looked pleased, like Mick had done a trick right after a lot of training. Mick glanced over his shoulder to the bed and said, "Don't know that he's proper broken yet. Reckon Thawne would let me keep him for a bit?"

 _That_ earned a laugh and a familiar clap on the shoulder, and Len said, "I'll talk to him, but I don't see why not."

Mick grunted. "Good. I'm going to get some air. Let me know how it goes."

He didn't like leaving Ray there, but acting concerned would ruin everything. So he left the building and, for a couple of hours, meandered around, in case someone was watching him. Found a bar and had a couple of beers. Roasted a few irritating birds when they tried to accost him for his donuts in the park. Normal, dumb, Mick Rory sort of stuff.

And then he found his way to Ray's apartment and systematically went over the place, hoping to find _something_ useful. Hoping that as much as Thawne had changed the world, he hadn't been able to destroy all Ray's intellect.

He'd been right to hope. Underneath a sheet, a small gun, barely the size of a handgun, sat and looked promising at Mick.

Of course, Mick didn't know what the hell it did, but Ray had made it, and had kept it hidden. That meant it was useful. He tucked it into his belt, under his shirt. After a moment's thought, he pocketed some thin pieces of metal and wire as well, and then returned to his normal, dumb, Mick Rory sort of stuff until Len got in touch.

Thawne was, apparently, happy with Mick's performance, but _not_ happy with Ray's level of not-broken; Mick evidently had permission to, in Len's words, "keep your chew toy for a while."

Which meant it was back to the sex dungeon, a place Mick could have done without ever setting foot in again.

Someone had cleaned up while Mick was gone. The room didn't smell like sex, and the tube of KY he'd left uncapped had been replaced. Ray had been cleaned up, too, and left on the bed like a fucking _present_ , complete with ribbons.

It was another tool, Mick knew. Humiliation served a purpose when you were trying to break someone, especially someone as optimistic and resilient as Ray. That didn't stop it from giving him pause when he walked into the room and found Ray trussed up on the bed with a pink ribbon tied around the base of his cock, another, equally pink, ribbon strung between two clamps firmly attached to his nipples, and a ball gag held in with yet another pink, satiny length of ribbon.

Ray was hard again, and Mick sighed, saying over his shoulder to Len, who'd met him in the foyer to give him the good news, "Starting to feel like you don't think I can make him get it up without help, Len."

"You've got plenty of time to get creative," Len said. "Thawne wanted to give you a head start this time is all."

 _That_ nearly made Mick see red, the idea of Thawne with his hands on Ray, but he simply let out another somewhat affirmative grunt and entered the room properly, closing the door behind him.

No click of a lock this time. Len, at least, apparently trusted Mick's absorption with his new toy.

Mick sat down on the bed beside Ray, only then registering the low buzz of a motor. Blinking, he looked over the other man and found the source; a vibrating plug, the part that Mick could see thankfully slick with some sort of lube. Mick wouldn't have put it past Thawne to do something that could actually _damage_ Ray. Wasn't that why he was doing this in the first place, to keep Thawne's interference minimal?

Ray's hands were still cuffed behind his back, and his breath was coming in short, laboured inhalations through his nose, the movement making his chest heave. A small weight had been strung on the ribbon connecting the nipple clamps, and every time he moved too much, the weight moved, earning a wince behind the gag.

Mick didn't like how much Ray seemed to be struggling to breathe with the gag in. Finding the little knife that had been so _considerately_ provided, Mick cut the strap and pulled the gag away, saying roughly, "Breathe slow, Haircut."

He needed to ask some questions, but he _also_ needed to be sure nobody would hear him. Raising his voice and glancing back over his shoulder at the camera, he called out, "I don't want him _suffocated_. There a spider gag anywhere in here?"

It was a calculated risk, and it paid off; there was no reply from either Len or Thawne, and Mick figured that they'd both have been all too eager to help him _play_. He still wasn't going to be _loud_ with his questions, but he felt somewhat reassured that even if they were _watching_ , nobody was listening in.

First things first; setting the scene so that they left them alone for a while. He settled on the bed, his back against the headboard, and dragged Ray into his lap, forcing himself to stay expressionless when the movement made the weight sway and dragged a low whine from Ray's throat. Mick had always enjoyed a bit of pain in his fun, but this twisted things.

Ray hadn't been _talking_ , aside from those little moments of protest the first time, and that was a worry. Mick didn't know whether he could fix things without Ray's mind behind him. But maybe it was as much the drugs as anything else. He hoped so, anyway.

One arm went around Ray's chest, holding him firmly against Mick; the other hand went to Ray's cock, because Mick had to make it look like he was _trying_. He pulled Ray back so that he could murmur in his ear, keeping his expression fierce. It should look like taunting, to anyone watching.

"Work with me," he murmured, keeping his strokes slow enough that they shouldn't be overwhelming. "I found your gun. What does it do?"

"Please." The word sounded _wrong_. Mick had thought about making Ray beg a few times, but not like _this_. Not _actually_ afraid. Ray licked his lips and swallowed convulsively and pleaded, "I won't - I shouldn't have taken the parts, I know. I'm sorry. Please, please, stop."

Mick growled low in his throat, snapping, "The gun, Haircut. What does it _do_?"

"I don't know!" Ray shuddered in his arms, tears streaking his cheeks again. Mick wanted to soothe him, but he didn't know _how_. How did you fix a situation like this? He settled for awkwardly rubbing Ray's side with the hand that was holding him back against Mick's chest, and Ray made another choked sound that made it clear he couldn't work out whether that had felt good or bad. Swallowing again, he whispered, "It just - stuck in my head. Wouldn't go away. I - I think it fixes things."

A gun that _fixed things_. Wasn't that just like Haircut.

Mick took the risk of pressing a quick kiss to the side of Ray's neck, murmuring, "You gotta play along for a bit, okay? I'll get you out."

He didn't wait for confirmation; he couldn't risk Thawne or Len thinking he was going too easy on Ray, not when he was supposed to be _breaking_ him. He sped up his strokes, shifting his other hand higher until it was loosely around Ray's throat, tilting the other man's head back and probably looking a lot rougher than it actually was. For all he was holding loosely, not cutting off Ray's breathing at all, he could feel panic setting in as Ray started hyperventilating, struggling against Mick's hands.

Fine. If it had to be this way, _fine_. Mick could fix it later, or Ray could hate him for it forever. What mattered was fixing _everything_.

They'd given Ray an aphrodisiac again, that much was clear, as a few more strokes made him come. This time, Mick could see a flush of shame rise in Ray's cheeks, and he swore to himself, but didn't stop. What was another layer of awful on top of everything that already had to happen?

He shoved Ray down on his stomach and tossed the vibrating plug aside, replacing it with a couple of fingers to check that Ray was loose enough to not get torn to hell. Ignoring Ray's wordless moan of protest and the sickness swirling in his own gut, he unzipped his pants and gave himself a couple of cursory tugs before pressing in again.

He had a plan this time. He wasn't fancy about sex, but Len knew he had a _thing_ about messing up pristine things, over and over if he could manage it. It satisfied the primal, destructive urge in him that made him burn so many things. Mick was pretty sure it was why Ray had been cleaned up while Mick had been ransacking his apartment. So it wouldn't be _too_ strange if he got Ray messed up enough to need to be cleaned up again, and then dragged him into the bathroom. There was no camera there; Mick could use the gun without being seen.

That meant he had to get messy, though.

For once, Mick was grateful for his indoctrination as Chronos; Chronos had known a hell of a lot of ways to cause pain while doing _very_ superficial damage. Sometimes he'd been sent after people who were too valuable to just kill but who needed to have information extracted from them, and he'd had the knowledge of how to do that dumped into his brain. He'd perfected it, over the years.

And Thawne had left this little knife.

Chronos knew torture. _Mick_ knew how to use pain as a counterpoint to pleasure, to make sex that much headier and overwhelming. He'd feel bad about it later, probably, and he was pretty sure that with each line scored down Ray's back, each thin trickle of blood, he was taking another step away from the Waverider, but he had to be all right with that.

The sounds Ray was making were all closer to distress now, little choked whimpers, and his eyes were tightly closed, the side of his face pressed to the mattress as though he could pretend nothing was happening if he just wished it hard enough, but the drugs Thawne or Len or whoever had fed him meant he stayed hard through it all. Mick wasn't sure whose idea that had been, but he wanted to do violent things to them.

It took him longer this time. Knife-play and bondage and all of the _superficial_ trappings of the situation were right up his alley, but the way Ray sounded, like a wounded animal more than a _man_ , wasn't. The tears weren't. The gasped, hiccupping cries every time Mick moved the right way to hit his prostate - those _could_ have been, if they'd just sounded overwhelmed instead of like Mick was twisting a knife in Ray's gut. Put all together, it was probably the _least_ sexy thing Mick had ever done, and it was tricky reminding himself that this was as much a performance as anything else.

When Ray came again, letting out a liquid, broken sound like a part of him had just _died_ , Mick realised he wasn't going to be able to keep it up. He thrust a few more times, going still and making a face that he hoped looked enough like his o-face to fool whoever was watching, and then pulled out of Ray and adjusted his pants, hoping that the _performance_ had been good enough.

He surveyed the wreck on the bed under him for a few moments before letting out a growl that felt half-hearted and reaching down to sling Ray over his shoulder and carry him into the bathroom. Ray was enough of a mess of blood and come and sweat and tears that _nobody_ should be surprised that Mick wanted to clean him up before round three.

Not that there was going to be a round three. Mick had realised, with that broken sound from Ray, that he wasn't going to be able to keep this up any longer. He had to deal with it _now_.

He set Ray on the floor and pulled out the gun he'd taken from Ray's apartment. Now, in the moment, it looked more like a make-you-dead sort of gun than a fixing-things gun, but he wasn't at all sure Ray would mind if he'd got it wrong. _That_ hurt, the look of defeated resignation on Ray's face as he slumped against the wall, like he'd realised that this was existence now and there was no getting out of it, and that he might as well just give up.

Ray _never_ gave up. It was one of the things that simultaneously irritated Mick and made him weirdly proud.

Steeling himself, Mick knelt in front of Ray, pointed the business end of the gun at him, and shot him in the head.

The first clue he got that it had worked was Ray head-butting him _hard_ in the face, with a crack that made them both swear and recoil. Mick reached up to feel his nose gingerly, pretty sure that something had broken in there, and grunted, "That's more like it."

"What the _hell_ , Mick."

Ray was struggling against the cuffs now, and Mick reached out to press a hand against his shoulder, trying to keep him still. Ray snarled, and oddly, that made Mick feel a bit better. He could cope with a Ray who hated him. He hadn't known how to cope with a Ray who looked _broken_.

"Stop fighting," Mick snapped, retreating back into his usual rough-and-ready behaviour. It was easier that way. He dug around in his pocket for one of the thin pieces of wire and metal he'd pocketed from Ray's apartment earlier. They were no lockpicks, but they were better than nothing. He shifted behind Ray and started poking at the handcuffs, adding, "We don't have long. Stay still and let me work."

"Get this shit _off me_ ," Ray snapped. There was a tremor in his voice that Mick didn't like, and he paused in his examination of the handcuffs to glance up at Ray, whose expression was tight and closed-off. His eyes were still unnaturally dilated, and Mick realised, with a curse, that he'd forgotten to remove the _adornments_ Thawne had put in place.

"Sorry," he said sheepishly, reaching around to undo the nipple clamps and the stupid fucking ribbon around Ray's cock. As he pulled the clamps free, Ray sucked in a harsh breath, and Mick risked a glance at his chest to determine the damage, relieved to see redness and painful-looking puffiness but no _bruising_. God knew how long he'd had those things on; Mick was going to count them both lucky if the worst Ray got from them was sore nipples.

He returned to his work on the cuffs, trying not to feel how much Ray was trembling. This close, though, it was impossible not to notice. He didn't say anything, though. What was there to say? Words couldn't fix this.

"Nearly there," he said, after interminable moments fiddling with the strips of metal and wire, working at the lock. He preferred electronic locks, personally, but there was something to be said for how _easy_ mechanical locks were to pick.

The moment the cuffs fell from his wrists, Ray pulled away, and Mick let him. He stood and went over to the sink, running the water until it was warm and dampening a washcloth, holding it out to Ray wordlessly.

He should have realised that being cuffed that long would do a number on Ray's dexterity; Ray reached for the cloth and dropped it three times before swearing softly and saying, "Mick, I can't. My hands are tingling too much."

Right. Fuck. Mick picked up the cloth and moved to kneel beside Ray, trying to keep his hands clinical as he cleaned the blood and come from Ray's skin. Ray was still trembling, but the tremors didn't seem to be getting _worse_ as Mick tended to him, at least. Mick examined Ray's arms and hands and muttered, "Probably just pins and needles from being cuffed so long. It'll pass."

He'd dealt with that himself. It wasn't fun, but it was temporary.

He tried to give Ray time, but time was ticking away too quickly, and eventually he said, "We need to move."

Ray's glare at him felt half-hearted, but Mick wasn't going to begrudge him a glare. Not considering _everything_. "You have a plan?"

"Bits of one." Mick tucked the fix-it gun back into his belt and stood. "I'll get the door open. Wait until I say so."

Getting the door open was easier than he'd expected. He remembered that he hadn't heard the lock engage, so all it took was opening it and shooting the guards outside with the fix-it gun. Most of the guys working for Thawne were probably assholes in any reality, but having an entire reality's worth of memories shoved into your head had to put you off-balance. It gave Mick the moment he needed to knock them out, frisk them for weapons and passes, and steal the pants from the one who looked closest to Ray's size.

Ray took longer than Mick was comfortable with to get dressed, whether because of physical pain or because his head was still fucked-up from _everything_ , but they were eventually on their way out of the building, with Mick using the not-fix-it guns on anyone who stood in their way, reminding himself to pick up his heat gun as soon as he could.

Spotting Len leaving with a very freaked-out-looking Nate gave Mick pause, and he glanced at Ray, saying, "Looks like Pretty's in trouble. You up for a rescue?"

Two genius heads, even if one of them was traumatised, were better than one plus Mick, right? Maybe with Nate's brain added to Ray's, they could work out where to go from here. Ray gave a short nod, still too silent for Mick's comfort, and they moved to intercept Len and Nate.

 

 _France, 1916_  
Mick wasn't an idiot. The future - alternate - _whatever_ \- versions of themselves were messed-up. Some weird shit must have gone down in the world that _he'd_ helped bring about.

And that rankled, that all their suspicions about him were justified. He didn't like thinking that Len would go along with the Legion of Doom, because he and Len had always been _crooked_ but they'd never wanted to _rule the fucking world_. He didn't like thinking that Len thought of him as nothing more than an attack dog.

More than that, though, he didn't like the way other-him looked, or the way other-Ray looked. Something had gone down. Something _bad_. Something worse, as far as other-him was concerned, than losing Amaya.

Mick wasn't a smart guy. But he could read people okay, and when the other-Ray was cut down brutally by Thawne, who turned and gave other-him a sharp smile and called out, "Should have taken care of him when you had the chance, Rory!" Mick didn't miss the flicker of pain and regret on other-Mick's face. And he didn't miss the way _their_ Ray froze up, eyes wide, like he'd been hit by lightning, just for a moment. Or the way he went quiet and couldn't look at either Mick when they got back to the ship.

So when they were planning, he took a moment to take other-Mick aside, slam him against a wall, and hiss, "What was that about?"

Other-Mick looked at him for a long moment, and then said, a tone in his voice that Mick had never expected to hear from _himself_ , "Get over yourself and say something before it's too late for forgiveness."

Whatever the fuck _that_ meant, Mick didn't have time to interrogate it. Things went to shit, like things _always did_ when the Legends got involved, and watching the other-Legends die was weirdly more upsetting than he thought it would have been six months ago. What he didn't expect, though, was the sudden shock that raced through him when other-Mick got shanked, like he'd licked a live wire.

Or the _memories_.

 _Now_ he knew why Ray wasn't looking at him. What the other him had done - and what they both obviously remembered now. He could barely focus past the sick feeling in his gut as the memories sank in, informing him of just how badly he'd messed up.

And then Sara fixed things, because of course Sara did. She kept going on about darkness in her and not being able to do the right thing, like she hadn't been doing the right thing all along.

They didn't get a chance to talk for a while. Time-quakes and anachronisms and everything got in the way. Mick was aware of Ray acting _different_ , though, and he wasn't sure what to do about it. He was frankly surprised Ray hadn't said anything to the rest of the team about what Mick had done to him. Mick wouldn't have blamed Ray for wanting him off the Waverider for good.

But days ticked past, and nobody said anything. Not the other Legends. Not Ray. Not Mick.

Mick wasn't the sort of guy who had nightmares. Sure, sometimes he dreamed about fire, but he _liked_ fire. That wasn't a nightmare, even if he could hear voices underneath the crackling flames sometimes.

( _Don't play with fire, Mick._ )

But now, in the wake of the shit-storm that had been chasing after the Spear, in the turmoil of dealing with how they'd broken time just a little bit, Mick's dreams changed.

He'd dreamed about Ray before. He wasn't blind, and he wasn't a priest. But this was different. He was back in the world Thawne had made, back in that fucking _sex dungeon_ , back with Ray, and this time, he didn't hold back. He didn't _care_ about Ray's tears, or the way his cries were more pain than anything else, or the blood. He just saw something he liked and he took it.

That was what he hadn't wanted to think about, the whole time. Len knew him too well. He'd been telling himself that it was Thawne's doing, and the sex dungeon was obviously somewhere Thawne had liked to play, but the way they'd trussed Ray up, the drugs making him loose-limbed and responsive, the _toys_ \- Mick would be lying if he tried to deny that that was the sort of thing he liked with people who were into it. Control was nice, when it was being used to fuck someone, not fuck _with_ them. Len knew he was into that, and he'd set Ray up exactly how Mick would've liked it.

Exactly how he did like it, in the dreams. In his sleep, Len's tone wasn't quietly malevolent when he told Mick to take his time. Len grinned the way he'd always grinned when he'd let Mick burn something after a job, and Mick went along with it because he _wanted_ to.

He started drinking right before trying to get to sleep, coaxing Gideon into fabricating him some of the harder stuff. The computer started sounding a bit doubtful after the first few times. She'd always been happy enough to make him booze before, but apparently she got twitchy about _this_ much vodka.

Mick was getting sick of making people twitchy.

Eventually, not that long after the whole Caesar crap, Mick decided enough was enough. Ray was still jumpy, and Mick didn't blame him. The rest of the team were starting to look at them both weird, like they'd figured something was up. Gideon was starting to ask him if he was sure every time he asked her to make him a drink to help him get to sleep, and even for a computer, she sounded off.

There was an easy fix. The rest of the team was asleep when Mick went to the bridge and said quietly, "You awake, Gideon?"

"I am always awake, Mr Rory."

"Sounds boring." He ran a hand over the console absently, murmuring to himself, "I'm gonna miss this place."

"Mr Rory?" she queried, like he'd said something she didn't like. Mick was used to that, but not from Gideon.

"You can recall the jump ship, right?" he asked, ignoring her query. "If it sets down somewhere and there's no one steering it, you can bring it back?"

"I can." She paused. "I am not allowing you into the jump ship without a fellow Legend, Mr Rory."

He blinked, thrown, and snapped, "Why the hell not?"

"Captain's orders." Mick scowled; what the hell was Sara thinking? "And Dr Palmer's request."

Well, that was just _stupid_. Mick swore, muttering, "Sara doesn't know what's going on and Haircut isn't thinking right. You should let me go."

"Mr Heywood has registered concern, should you leave the ship," Gideon said, and Mick frowned. He'd thought Pretty was too busy moping over Amaya leaving to notice anyone else. Gideon continued, "Professor Stein and Mr Jackson have both asked that, should you depart, I keep track of your whereabouts."

Mick scowled again. "I don't need babysitting."

"Nobody said you did," Gideon said implacably. "But your team is concerned about you."

"Is that why you won't give me the hard stuff anymore?" Mick demanded. "Sara tell you not to?"

"No," Gideon said. "I'm concerned, too, Mr Rory."

Mick slammed his fist down on the console. "Damn it, Gideon, I'm not the one everyone should be concerned about!"

"We're also worried about Dr Palmer," Gideon said quietly. "If either one of you thinks running away from what's going on will go unremarked on by the rest of the team, you're very much mistaken. We may not know what's troubling you, but we know you're troubled, and friends don't give up on friends who are troubled."

( _"I don't have friends."_

 _"But he does have partners."_ )

Mick turned on his heel and left the bridge. He still had enough of a stash to get him good and drunk tonight, at least.

They managed to keep things together on missions, but that was about the best Mick could say for how he and Ray were keeping their theirs-but-not-theirs memories under wraps. Mick took to avoiding the rest of the team when they weren't working. They couldn't look at him weird and be _concerned_ if he wasn't around them.

Not like he had any right to have them be concerned at him, anyway. He wasn't the one who'd been hurt.

Sleeping was still a problem, especially now that Gideon was playing Prohibition. He hadn't liked the _real_ Prohibition when they'd been in Chicago; he didn't like it any more now. She'd still make him a couple of beers to cap off the night, she'd make wine for anyone who asked for it, but she'd put a moratorium on anything harder, and none of the others even remarked on it after the first time Pretty asked her to fabricate him a vodka and she said no.

Probably more of that _concern_ of theirs.

But regardless, Mick was having trouble sleeping, and he began to wander late at night, when everyone else was asleep. The Waverider wasn't big enough to really get lost in, but he could familiarise himself with the walls until he was tired enough to not dream.

It only worked sometimes. The rest of the time, he had Ray's screams and Len's vicious amusement and his own twisted desire in his head, keeping the flames company.

He was almost getting used to hearing Ray scream in his dreams; he wasn't used to hearing it when he was meandering the Waverider's dark corridors, sometime after what his body clock told him was midnight.

He reacted on impulse, ending up outside Ray's room. He halted just shy of the doorway when he heard voices inside, though.

"Hey, hey." That was Nate, Mick was pretty sure. His voice was low and gentle, and Mick could only hear it because the rest of the ship was so damn quiet. "You're okay."

The sound of Ray's sigh, half a sob, cut through Mick like a knife. "I'm so _sick_ of this."

"Give yourself time." Nate was quiet for a moment, and then said softly, "I'm not pushing, but you can talk to any of us, you know that, right?"

 _That_ was a surprise. Mick had figured Ray had at least told the rest of the team that Mick had hurt him, even if he hadn't gone into the ugly details.

Ray was silent, and Nate sighed. "You and Mick. It's not good for you, keeping it in. Either of you."

"I know." Ray's voice sounded steadier now, at least. "It's better than it was."

Nate sounded hesitant as he asked, "Is it the same thing that's bothering Mick?"

"Yeah." Ray's sigh was ragged again. "It's okay, Nate. I'll get over it."

Mick froze, a frown crossing his face. Ray wasn't supposed to think he had to _get over_ what had happened. That was the sort of thing you said about accidentally getting winged in combat or finding out your teammate had finished the last of the mayo. It wasn't something Ray should be saying about having been assaulted.

He stepped into the doorway, noting Nate's suddenly defensive body language as Nate and Ray noticed him. He wouldn't have been surprised if Nate had steeled up and sucker-punched him, except that Nate was sitting close by Ray's bed, looking like he'd been sleeping in the chair, and probably wouldn't want to startle Ray.

Ray looked like shit. Mick had been avoiding him more than anyone else, and he'd missed how _tired_ Ray looked. There were dark smudges under his eyes, and Mick wasn't sure, but he thought he'd lost weight.

This wasn't okay.

"You ready to yell at me yet?" Mick asked, staying in the doorway. Maybe if Ray got some good, righteous anger worked up, he'd feel better afterward. Mick could deal with a broken nose or whatever Ray went for, after everything he'd done.

Ray sighed. "I don't want to yell at you, Mick."

"Then you're an idiot," Mick growled. "You should want to kill me."

Nate started to get to his feet, looking awkward. "You guys want some privacy?"

"No," Mick said sharply. "Don't leave him alone with me."

Nate's eyes widened, and Mick saw the moment he clocked exactly what had happened. He looked from Mick to Ray, and then said the last thing Mick would have expected.

"Well, that explains more than it doesn't."

" _What_ ," Mick said more than asked. He didn't like feeling like he was _readable_ , not about something like this.

Nate swallowed. "I mean, we all know you're having nightmares too, Mick. You've just been so prickly since the Spear that we didn't know how to talk to you about them. And we didn't want to..."

He trailed off, and Ray said quietly, "Make you feel like Snart had been right."

"This isn't about me," Mick said, his fingers itching for a bottle of something strong to knock himself out. But Ray needed to be able to be mad. Even Mick knew things didn't get better if you just sat on them.

"It sounds like it's about both of you," Nate offered. "And it didn't start until after the Doomworld versions of us came back. That means it's something that happened in Doomworld."

Mick frowned, looking at Nate properly for the first time. "What do you know about Doomworld?"

"I know that I got the other Nate's memories when he died," Nate said quietly. "I haven't talked much to the others about it, but I'm pretty sure it's the same with them. So whatever went down with you two, it's something from there."

Well, that answered that question, at least. Mick was silent, trying to work out what he should say to get the conversation back onto the making-Ray-angry-so-he-could-get-better track, and as he struggled with that, Nate got to his feet.

"You're still here," he said, glancing from Mick to Ray and back. "You have our backs in fights, and even if we don't always get each other, we trust you. We're a team."

"Me and Len were a team."

There was a heavy silence, for what felt like a long time, and then Ray said, "Not like _we're_ a team. We should have let you in more, Mick. Snart wouldn't have been able to get into your head if we'd treated you like one of us. You'd earned it and we ignored that."

"You didn't-"

"We did," Nate said. "You're smart enough not to buy things that don't have a basis in reality."

Nate glanced at Ray again, who gave him a small nod, and then approached the door. He reached out to clasp Mick's shoulder briefly, a bit of contact that Mick wasn't used to from anyone on the team, and said, "We trust you. You don't need _supervision_."

He left, leaving Mick alone in the room with Ray. Mick stayed by the door, unwilling to go further in, even when Ray sighed and sat up on the edge of the bed, looking tired and emotional and like he needed someone to hug him.

Someone not Mick.

"Why don't you hate me?" he asked, the words coming out of their own volition.

There was another long silence, and then Ray said, "I hate Thawne. That version of Snart, for twisting your mind this way. But I don't hate you. You were helping the only way you could."

Mick let out a sharp bark of a laugh. "Helping. Right."

"We're here, aren't we?" Ray asked. "The Spear is powerless now. It worked out."

"No thanks to me."

Ray swore, then, and said, his voice unusually sharp, " _Yes_ , thanks to you. You get at least _some_ of the credit, Mick."

"You should hate me." That was what made sense. Mick had hurt Ray in a deeply personal way; Ray should hate him.

"Don't make that decision for me." Ray stood up to cross the few feet of space between them and reached over to touch Mick's arm. Mick could see a tiny tremor running through Ray, but Ray pushed through it, closing his hand on Mick's arm. "Snart tried to make you think none of us wanted you around, that we don't trust you. I trust you."

"You're an idiot," Mick said half-heartedly.

Ray chuckled, and Mick realised he hadn't heard that sound in a long time. It was a good sound.

"Maybe I am. But I trust you. Trust _me_ to know what I'm feeling."

It was such a bizarre thing, feeling guilty over something _he_ technically hadn't done, living with the memories of a life that he could see as his but hadn't _been_ his. It was a conflict worse than the one he'd faced when he'd been hallucinating Len, when Len from the past, before he'd become a good man, had started coaxing over to the side that really _did_ think he was nothing but an attack dog. It made Mick's head hurt.

He sighed and said quietly, "Yeah. Yeah, okay. I can't wrap my head around this two realities worth of memories anyway."

Ray was looking at him with a thoughtful expression, and before Mick could ask him what he was thinking, he asked, "Mick, can I kiss you?"

Mick felt like the floor had gone out from under him. "What?"

"I'd thought about it before." Ray shrugged self-consciously. "Things haven't been good between us, but it's not your fault and it's not my fault, and I kind of want to see if we can move past it to something better, if you want to."

Mick hesitated. "You sure?"

Ray laughed again, and the crackling flames in Mick's head subsided a bit. "I'm sure, Mick."

It was a light, tentative sort of kiss, and Mick could feel Ray still trembling. When Ray pulled back a little, Mick realised he'd put a hand on Ray's shoulder, and that _his_ hand was shaking a little too.

"We can figure it out." Ray's smile was shaky, but it was _there_. "We can figure it out together."

Things weren't fixed. Reality might be fixed, but time was broken, Ray was still showing cracks, and Mick was pretty sure _he_ was unfixable. But maybe there was a chance of papering over the worst of his damage, like putting nice wallpaper in a rundown house. Maybe he'd just been trying to fix himself alone when a proper house flip needed more hands than that. Maybe he and Ray could work things out.

Maybe that would be enough.


End file.
